


echo chamber.

by iriascent



Category: Produce 101 (TV), X1 (Korea Band)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Feelings, Gen, I'm Bad At Summaries, Jealousy, Kinda, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, dongpyo's kind of a bitch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:53:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22075045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iriascent/pseuds/iriascent
Summary: It is impossible to simply will your body to stop. Despite your pleas, the body will keep firing signals to the brain, the heart will continue to pump blood throughout the body, and the brain will force the heart to beat.This is why humans must resort to such rudimentary methods of erasing themselves from existence. They jam shiny metal into the complicated inner workings of the heart, they take capsules that will slow and stop the brain, they light fire to their body so that their soul no longer has a place to call home.Hangyul fears death, and yet he craves it.(Or: Hangyul does not know who he is, but maybe someone can tell him.)
Relationships: Lee Hangyul/Song Hyeongjun, Son Dongpyo/Song Hyeongjun
Comments: 10
Kudos: 21





	echo chamber.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radishface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radishface/gifts).



> For the most knowledgeable fossil I know, who taught me who Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie was, ranted about personas in the kpop world with me, and opened my eyes to the world beyond - happy New Year's. 
> 
> (P.S.: If you say LOL with an exclamation point one more time, I'm disowning you.)

It’s two a.m., and he can’t sleep.

There’s a faint buzz, and Hangyul can’t tell if it’s from the four cups of coffee or the deadening numbness of disassociation. 

He stares blankly at the screen.  _ You died!  _ It reads in cheerful block letters, pixelated chicken lying dead on the road. Pastel colored cars run over it on the road, oblivious to the poor fellow’s plight.

Yep, sounds about right.

In the dark of night, it seems impossible to remember how to smile, how to laugh, how to be happy. Now that there’s no one to see him, Hangyul’s cheer slips away, leaving him a hollow slip of a man.

Is Seungyoun like this? Is Dongpyo like this? Why is he, the one who suffered the least and received little hate, the one who feels like his soul is being ripped in two?

Hangyul’s eyes start to hurt and he realizes that he is still staring at the screen, as if by doing so, the cartoon character would come alive again.

He shuts it off with great reluctance, flipping it over so that he wouldn’t be tempted by the dark loneliness of the empty screen. Also, he’s pretty sure that he looks like shit right now, even in the dark.

Hangyul pops up from underneath his giant mass of blankets, breathing in the air with relief. At least it’s slightly cooler and offers some relief from the stifling heat of before.

_ Why did I stay under for so long if it’s better out here? _ he wonders.

The migraine-inducing snores of Seungyoun float to him on the heated breeze, and Hangyul very  _ nearly _ cracks a smile.  _ Oh, yeah. That. _

He very carefully moves aside his blankets and slips his feet into his fluffy slippers, so as not to make any sound. The door creaks open with little resistance, and Hangyul slips through the crack as it closes.

It’s cooler outside, too, and Hangyul revels in this newfound freedom, this boldness that overtakes his caffeinated, depressed mind at two a.m. in the morning. He feels like a wraith in the night, sneaking throughout the house like Santa Claus without a trace that he was ever there.

Except he’s doing it for purely selfish reasons, and  _ not _ distributing presents to those who deserve it.

The thought sobers Hangyul, and like a guilty man, he quickens his pace. From who? He doesn’t know. To where? He doesn’t know that, either. 

He doesn’t know anything at all right now.

And now, even the slightly chilly air of the hallway feels suffocating. Hangyul starts to pick up his pace in a mild jog, then a quick run, then to a sprint, dashing up the stairs two at a time and quietly opening the glass door leading to the balcony.

(Because even in the midst of his depression, Lee Hangyul is considerate.)

The harsh wind hits him like a slap to the face, and Hangyul gulps it all down like a fish out of water, mouth opening and closing not-so-silently. His chest rises and expands, lungs pumping air in and out of his body as his heart rate quickens to match.

It is impossible to simply will your body to stop. Despite your pleas, the body will keep firing signals to the brain, the heart will continue to pump blood throughout the body, and the brain will force the heart to beat. 

This is why humans must resort to such rudimentary methods of erasing themselves from existence. They jam shiny metal into the complicated inner workings of the heart, they take capsules that will slow and stop the brain, they light fire to their body so that their soul no longer has a place to call home.

Hangyul fears death, and yet he craves it.

In the bright light of day, he simply doesn’t think of it. The sun drapes itself like a cloak around his shoulders, a spotlight for his face, and beams its brilliance from his smile. His mind is too busy, signals rushing back and forth and too and fro, that there is simply no time to think about higher matters such as death. 

Light is heat and heat is motion, and both light and motion are the two things that keep Hangyul alive.

But in the night-

In the night, fear creeps like a thief to his bedside, inky darkness pooling around the blankets and gathering in a formless mass right next to his pillow. Fear has a smile, one with too many teeth and no eyes to reveal the true intentions behind it. Fear touches his head and slides into his dreams, tainting it with paranoia and selfishness. Once fear has acclimated to his brain, it deems it unsatisfying and rushes to his heart, punching it back and forth until Hangyul has motion sickness. This body cannot handle fear, so it tells the brain to stop. Together, they escape into the waking world.

However, with fear, comes death following shortly behind.

Death is not a thief nor a dreamwalker nor a brawler. Death is a patient man.

Unlike fear, death does not pounce on Hangyul once it gets the chance. It waits and waits and waits, long tongue flickering next to Hangyul’s ear. 

_ Eat it all,  _ it encourages him when he’s in the kitchen, holding a bottle of Advil in his hand because the headaches are becoming too much.

_ Stay under longer _ , it whispers when he’s underwater in a swimming pool, even after Seungyoun has long forfeited the contest and surfaced for a deep breath of air.

_ Jump,  _ it tells him now, when there’s practically nothing separating him from the balcony and the two stories below.

_ If you truly wish to die, throw yourself down from here. _

Hangyul wills his feet to move. One step forward. Two steps forward. His fingers wrap around the edge of the glass balcony. It’s cold to the touch.

The street is mostly dark. Everyone is sleeping. No one could see him up there. Even if he was caught, it would be nothing newsworthy, anyway. His true intentions remain unhidden.

It would be so easy. All Hangyul would have to do is jump.

_ Light is heat and heat is motion and he needs motion so that he can- _

He can’t.

He can’t do it, he can’t pull himself over the ledge and feel the ice cold glass underneath his fingertips, he can’t enjoy the brief moment of weightlessness and crushing regret before he hits the ground like a bug flying towards a windshield.

Hangyul stumbles back from the railing, blindly fumbles for the door handle, and steps back inside. He can’t feel his fingers.

He can’t feel anything at all besides the gaping void in his chest that deems him a coward.

The media calls him selfish.

Selfish, undeserving, inconsiderate, worthless, talentless, untalented, overhyped, unworthy, failures, pawns, delinquents… the list goes on and on.

_ Well, they’re not wrong _ , Hangyul thinks grimly. 

All of this - the scandal, the ban from performances and award shows, the media bullshit - sounds like a real mystery. A true black-and-white crime thriller, with the criminals and cops and minus the thrill. The newspapers are chomping at the bit for any new tidbit of information that pops up.

_ What are the circumstances, officer? _

The who: Hangyul. And the rest of X1. The cops. MNet, especially that no-good-fucker Ahn Junyoung. 

The what: The vote scandal. The fact that some, if not all, of X1 and IZ*ONE and Wanna One and IOI were rigged in. It makes his head hurt to even think about the fact that his idols, his heroes, the ones that came before them might have known about this as well.

Then Hangyul remembers his own hypocrisy, and he decides to shut up.

The when: November 17, 2019. That’s the day the articles started flooding in, the journalists started clamoring, and their world crumbled into pieces. 

The where: On the show. In the courtrooms. On the stage. In sterile meeting rooms. Possibly in the backrooms of agencies, where rich CEO’s and high-profile managers would receive “sexual favors” in exchange for success. 

A thought occurs to him: Has any of that happened to the others? And if so, had they done it willingly? Was that how Minhee, how Eunsang, how Junho might have gotten in? Brief images of kind smiles, shared jokes, and shared sleepless nights spent practicing flash through Hangyul’s mind, and he wants to puke.

“No. None of them would do something like that,” he mutters, but it comes out unconvinced. His head shakes violently back and forth, as if a physical sign of his adamant disapproval would somehow form these words into absolute truth. He gets up, flipping the light switch.

The bathroom is bathed in harsh white light, the ceiling lamp illuminating every imperfection, every crack in the walls. Hangyul winces, remembering why he turned the light off in the first place. “Never mind.”

Someone knocks on the door. “Hyung? Hyung, are you in there?”

Hangyul panics, shoving his phone into his pants pocket. “Yeah, I’m taking a shit!”

A respectful silence follows this announcement, and Hangyul can hear Hyeongjun moving away from the door. “That’s  _ nasty _ , hyung. Tell me when you’re out - I need to use the restroom too!”

“Okay!” Hangyul calls back, listening to the tread of Hyeongjun’s footsteps travel further down the hall and fade away. He gives a small sigh of relief -  _ why? It’s not as if he did something wrong, everyone’s entitled to using Naver, freedom of internet and all that -  _ and blindly gropes for the sink.

The water’s tepid, almost nastily so, but Hangyul’s grateful for the warmth in this biting winter night. He wonders how long it will take for the management to cut off heat to the dorm, now that all hope of covering up the scandal is lost.

Without bothering to wipe his hands on the towel, he opens the door to see Hyeongjun waiting outside. “What are you doing?” Hangyul asks. “It’s cold. Why aren’t you back with the other members?”

Hyeongjun’s toes curl up on the cold floor, feet devoid of his usually fluffy slippers. “I know. I already went to the restroom, I just wanted to wait for you,” he says. His eyes are bright, filled to the brim with innocence and earnesty. Some of his earlier shine is gone, dulled slightly from the pressures of becoming an idol, but it is there nevertheless.

Without thinking, Hangyul takes off his jacket. “Here you go. You’re going to get sick, and then what are we going to do without our vitamin?” he teases, squishing the other’s cheeks.

Hyeongjun’s nose crinkles in feigned distaste, but he endures the torture anyway. A fond smile curls the corner of his lips when he thinks Hangyul isn’t looking, and Hangyul is filled with the urge to hold him close and squeeze him as tight as possible. He settles for an arm wrapped around the other’s shoulder instead.

They walk like this, in comforting silence. Hangyul wonders if Hyeongjun is comfortable as he is, if he is thinking about the same things as he is, if he waits and dreams and dreads for the future like he is.

“What are you thinking about?” Hyeongjun asks quite suddenly, like he can read Hangyul’s mind. Or perhaps Hangyul is too easy to read.

Hangyul is thinking about the way Hyeongjun shines. He is like the sun, spreading his golden rays in every direction. Light spreads a carpet for his feet, warmth blossoming underneath his fingertips. He is a part of their lives, so constant and unchanging, and only when he left would his absence be noticed.

Oh, how Hangyul wishes it would never set.

“I was thinking about chicken,” he says, managing to keep a straight face.

Hyeongjun shoots him a dubious look. “Chicken.”

“Yeah! Chicken! Don’t you love how the sauce is super sweet and spicy, and the skin is crunchy, but the meat is tender and juicy? And with the radish? Perfection,” Hangyul says enthusiastically, imagining himself biting into a drumstick of fried chicken.

Hyeongjun groans and holds his stomach. “Nooo… now you’re making  _ me _ think about chicken, too! Stop it! I’m getting hungry,” he pouts, looking up at Hangyul, and it takes every ounce of the other’s strength to not squeeze that adorable face right then and there.

“I haven’t had chicken in a while, actually,” Hangyul says. “Why don’t we go get some?”

“What about our diets?!” Hyeongjun protests. “We need to stick to them!”

“Aish, you’re so skinny, I’m sure the stylists wouldn’t mind you gaining a few pounds,” Hangyul teases, poking Hyeongjun in the belly. “Look at you! You’re becoming a skeleton already!”

Hyeongjun splutters, face turning red in embarrassment. It’s cute to watch. “What about- what about our bodies? For performances?!” 

Hangyul presses his lips to hide a smile - not that it can be seen in the darkened dorm anyway.  _ This kid is going to be the death of me. _ “My glorious abs shall survive, though not without minimum damage,” he proclaims. “Come on, the other members are all asleep right now. What do you say we go on a quick chicken run?”

Hyeongjun looks as if he’s about to refuse, but then hesitates.  _ Aha. I got him now.  _ “What if we get caught?” he asks, still uncertain. Hangyul can practically see the wheels turning in his head.

“Look, do you trust your hyung or not?” he says impatiently, rolling his eyes for exaggerated effect. Suddenly, an idea sparks in his mind, and he leans forward to whisper into Hyeongjun’s ear.

“If you go, I’ll buy you some dalgona  _ and _ hide it from the others for you.”

Hyeongjun’s eyes grow wide with greed and hunger, and he immediately grabs a jacket thrown on the couch, not caring who it belongs to. “Yeah, I’ll go.”

The people call him idol.

He and Hyeongjun go out to get chicken, throwing masks and sunglasses on their faces. In their adrenaline, they don’t realize that wearing these at night make them more conspicuous than anything else, but they’d be too excited to care nonetheless.

They wrap their jackets tightly around them and head to the nearest bus station. Their cheeks are flushed pink from the cold, eyes sparkling with hunger and excitement. “Do you think anyone’s gonna notice us?” Hyeongjun asks.

Hangyul looks up from where he is kicking a ball of hardened slush around the sidewalk. “At this hour? Unlikely.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Hyeongjun leans back onto the bench where he is sitting (there’s only room for one, and Hangyul had  _ very _ politely declined Hyeongjun’s offer of sitting on the bench with the other in his lap). His curls are flecked with snowflakes, and some fall off as he tips his head back to look at the sky. 

Hangyul carves this image into his mind. One boy huddled into a cute little ball on the wooden bench, sheltered by the mini roof of the bus station. One boy with sprawling limbs and a lean figure, stopped in the middle of his tracks to watch the other.

Hyeongjun tilts his head to one side, face furrowed as if listening intently to something. Or for something. “The bus is coming.”

Sure enough, the bus makes its way around the corner, screeching to a stop at their station. Hangyul guides Hyeongjun into the bus first, one hand on his back, then pays for their tickets later. 

The ride is short and uneventful. Throughout the short period it takes to get from the dorms to the nearest chicken place, Hyeongjun keeps looking around anxiously, body tensed up with nerves, until Hangyul places a hand on his arm and the other goes still.

They arrive at the chicken place, and the bus shudders to a stop as they get off. Hangyul gazes up in awe at the golden light streaming through the restaurant, luscious pieces of chicken shown on the brightly lit menu and the two surrounded by the smell of it. “I,” he pronounces, “am  _ so _ hungry.”

Hyeongjun, still stubbornly trying to hang on to his diet, is examining the menu. “These are all over 800 calories… Seungwoo-hyung is definitely going to kill us.”

"We can split it," Hangyul says. Grease, juicy meat, crispy skin, savory juices... "That's half the calories." He doesn't sound very convincing. Even he knows he's lying. His mouth is watering too much to make it sound honest.

Hyeongjun nods too enthusiastically. “Yeah. Half the calories. Can we get the ban-ban?” Hangyul’s stomach growls anew as he recalls spicy and savory chicken, mixed in one package, with the pickled radish on the side… 

_ Ah, screw it. _

He steps up to the register. The cashier is a girl who looks to be about twenty, with bleached blond hair and eyes furiously focused on her video game. 

Hyeongjun gives Hangyul’s hand a small squeeze, and he looks to the side to see the other drifting off to a booth.  _ I’ll save one for you _ , he mouths. Traitor. As if there are other people in the restaurant besides them.

Hangyul loudly clears his throat, and she looks up. “Can I help you-”

Her eyes grow wide with disbelief and amazement. Hangyul mentally recites all the curse words he can think of, and offers up a tight smile. “Yeah. Can we have the mixed ban-ban chicken, in small? With extra radish on the side?”

The girl still doesn’t respond. Hangyul takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the niggling feeling of annoyance. “Um, yeah,” she coughs out. “One ban-ban, coming up.”

Hangyul waits with Hyeongjun, hands linked together underneath the table, until their number is called. The girl hands them the bright red tray loaded with chicken, mutters something about their recent Flash performance, and scurries off. Hangyul and Hyeongjun don’t even look at her.

They split the chicken in half, each with two spicy pieces and two savory ones, and it’s the best fucking thing Hangyul has ever eaten. The food is practically inhaled as the two dig into the chicken with ravenous hunger and the sauce is licked off of their fingers. They share the Milkis, one giant gulp each, and then it’s all gone. The sweet taste lingers on Hangyul’s lips and he wishes that he had more. Hyeongjun looks at the empty carton enviously.

“We should get another if you’re that hungry,” Hangyul suggests, turning to Hyeongjun. “Hey, you have some sauce on your face.”

Hyeongjun flushes a bright red, scrubbing at his face with the side of his hand. He only makes the stain worse. “Where? Ugh, it’s all sticky, I feel like a mess…”

“Here, I’ll get it for you,” Hangyul offers. He grabs a wet wipe from the dispenser at the side of the table and rubs it on the other’s cheek. Hyeongjun wrinkles his nose and tries to squirm away, but Hangyul uses one hand to grab his chin. “Stay still.”

Incredibly, amazingly, Hyeongjun goes limp in his grasp, like a kitten being picked the scruff of its neck. And- oh.  _ Oh. _

His face is so  _ small _ , around half can fit into Hangyul’s hand. But his eyes are so  _ big _ , so wide and trusting, that Hangyul feels as if his heart is about to burst. His hand stutters, once, twice, then falls in his lap.

Hyeongjun, oblivious to the havoc he has just wreaked, pulls away. “Is it all gone?”

“Yeah,” Hangyul says faintly. “Yeah, it is.” His head is wreathed in a numbing fog. It’s like laughing gas, overly sweet and turning you punch-drunk. 

(“Hyung, can you move?”)

Butterflies are being pumped into his body, bashing their wings against the inner walls of his stomach and causing him to vibrate at the speed of sound.

(“Can you move your legs?”)

He’s drinking champagne, of which he’s only had once before, and it’s far more bubblier than he remembers it being. The alcohol goes to his head, turning him reckless and filling him with adoration.

(“Come on, we need to leave before- that’s it, I’m just gonna… ”)

Rose-tinted glasses are slipped on over his eyes, and-

_ “Ahhh!!” _

Hangyul distantly feels a foot knock against his leg, and then looks up to see Hyeongjun tumble to the ground, arms flung in the air before he crumples to the ground in a limp heap. He lifts up his head, and Hangyul can see the blood dripping from his nose. 

He stays in his seat, paralyzed with horror, before he springs into action. He grabs the same wet wipe, holding it to Hyeongjun’s nose to staunch the bleeding.

Hyeongjun has a dazed expression on his face. He lifts his hand ever so slightly to interrupt the flow of blood, then looks at the crimson liquid smeared on his fingers, still not comprehending.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” Hangyul stammers. His hands tremble with fear, concern, definitely a healthy mixture of the two. “What the  _ fuck _ what the absolute  _ fuck _ Hyeongjun are you okay-”

There’s an audible  _ ding _ that rings throughout the restaurant. Hangyul looks up to see the girl from earlier, a terrified expression on her face. 

Her cell phone is still held up in the air. 

“Shut it off,” Hangyul snaps. He stands up, hands clenching into fists. “Shut the damn thing off and help him! Get an ice pack or something!”

The girl scurries off, and Hangyul turns his attention back to Hyeongjun. “I’m- I’m so sorry,” he says weakly. A feeling of helplessness rushes through him, and he stands there paralyzed, unable to figure out what he should do next. “Hyeongjun, I’m so sorry.”

Hyeongjun shakes his head, hand cupped around his nose. “Not your fault,” he says, then gags. Blood drips out of his mouth and onto the floor. “We need to get back to the dorm.”

_ I never should have pressured him into coming with me _ , Hangyul thinks numbly as they trudge back to the bus. They tried to clean up Hyeongjun’s face as best as they could, but as the blood kept coming, it was impossible to remove it entirely. Hyeongjun holds an ice pack next to his nose, covering it with his scarf to look as inconspicuous as possible.

Every time Hangyul sees his crooked nose, his heart breaks slightly.  _ I did that,  _ he thinks numbly.  _ I was the one who hurt Hyeongjun.  _

_ He’s injured, and it’s all my fault. _

The members call him reckless.

“The manager said not to go out for a reason!” Seungwoo exclaims. He’s in a bright pink apron with flowery trim, which does  _ not _ make him any less intimidating whatsoever. “Hangyul, being the hyung, I expect you to take care of the younger ones, not hurt them! You knew what would happen, you knew how the media leaps at any sign of weakness whenever they get the chance, and yet you decided to ignore our advice anyway.”

Hangyul doesn’t meet his eyes, body curling inwards on itself. His normally fidgeting hands are completely still at his side, leaden with guilt and shame. “I know,” he mumbles. “It’s my fault.”

Seungwoo misreads his tone as sarcasm, and flies into another lecture. “Yes! Yes, it was your fault! Maybe not that Hyeongjun got injured, although that’s  _ certainly  _ how the cameras are portraying it! No, it’s your fault that you guys went out anyway, it’s your fault that we’re  _ all _ under new pressure because of one stupid mistake!”

Hangyul stares miserably at his feet. He wishes that the ground would just drop out from under him so that he wouldn’t have to look at Seungwoo’s reprimanding expression and be reminded of his sins, over and over again. It plays in his head like a mantra:  _ Your fault. Your fault. Your fault. _

“So do you have anything to say for yourself?” Seungwoo asks. “Well?”

Hangyul doesn’t look up. He doesn’t want to let Seungwoo see the crushing devastation on his face, the tears slowly brimming in his eyes, the concern written all over his expressions. Every time he closes his eyes, he can see Hyeongjun, nose crooked and blood streaming down his face.

Then there’s a hand on his arm. It grasps his shoulder firmly. “Seungwoo,” someone says softly, and Hangyul recognizes it as Seungyoun. There is no trace of a smile in his voice. “Can we talk?”

Seungwoo lets out an exasperated sigh, but the sound of him pacing retreats. Hangyul looks up to see the two of them heading to Seungyoun’s room. 

Seungyoun throws a concerned expression over his shoulder.  _ Figure it out _ , he mouths, and the two disappear down the hallway.

Hangyul takes a minute (or two, or three) to compose himself. He rubs at his eyes furiously, willing the tears to evaporate. He scrunches his face up, wanting his expression to turn composed. 

He is not pretty when he cries, like in the movies and in dramas. He is not stoic, with a singular tear dripping down his rugged face or shit like that. His eyes swell and turn bright red, his nose becomes all clogged, his nose and cheeks flush a bright red.

Why is he crying, anyway? Hyeongjun’s the one who got injured, Hangyul doesn’t have the right to cry, doesn’t  _ have _ the right to gnash his teeth and wail over his actions, stupid kid crying over milk that he spilled himself-

He gets up, shakily. Heads down the corridor to Hyeongjun’s room. The door is closed, a weak safeguard against the monster about to enter, and Hangyul pushes it open.

The room’s dark. There are no lights on, and the curtains are closed. Only the faintest sliver of golden morning light is leaking through the cracks. 

On the bed, there is a mass of multicolored blankets piled up on top of each other. The pile is so huge that it takes Hangyul a while to realize that there is a  _ person _ underneath that pile. 

Two people, in fact. There’s the sound of soft lofi music and of muffled giggling, belonging to two very different tones. The headboard is lit up by bright lights, changing color every couple seconds. 

Hangyul creeps closer. Behind the mound of blankets are two heads, one dark and one light. They bob back and forth occasionally, but for the most part their eyes are fixed firmly on the Studio Ghibli movie playing on the phone in front of them.

Dongpyo turns to Hyeongjun and leans forward to whisper something into his ear, and they laugh. Hyeongjun’s smile spreads from ear to ear, and his dimples dig deep into Hangyul’s heart. 

They look so  _ happy. _

Hangyul feels as if he’s watching something too intimate, something that he walked in on; an uninvited voyeur. Dongpyo’s fingers rest on Hyeongjun’s back, sliding lower down, almost to his waist.

Hangyul burns with jealousy.

When they’re being brought out of the beam shining on the stage and painted faces are wiped clean, is this how they act? Do they whisper secrets, make fake rivalries, only to wall themselves away from the rest of the world and build a home of their own out of each other? He’s seeing them in a new light, now, and when he’s looking for it, he can’t stop.

He turns around, preparing to back out of the room, when he steps on a stray plastic bag lying on the floor. It makes a crackling sound under his foot.

Fuck.

Dongpyo turns around, the remnants of an adoring smile still hanging on his face. It disappears as soon as he sees Hangyul.

“What are you doing here?”

“To apologize,” Hangyul stammers, raising his hands in a show of goodwill. “Can I talk to Hyeongjun for a bit?”

He can’t see Dongpyo’s face clearly in this semi-darkness. His features lie in shadow, and Hangyul can’t tell his true intentions at all that way.

“Sure,” Dongpyo says. His voice is unreadable. “I’ll be right outside.” He steps over the plastic bag, shutting the door quietly behind him.

“Hyeongjun, are you feeling better?” Hangyul asks, taking a seat on the bed. “I’m… so sorry.”

Hyeongjun turns around to face him, and oh God. His nose is worse off than hangyul remembers. 

Despite his injury, his face lights up in a bright smile. “Hyung! I was beginning to think you wouldn’t come.”

Hangyul presses his lips together in an imitation of a smile.  _ Does Hyeongjun really think that low of me? _ “Of course I would! Why wouldn’t I? I need to take care of your injuries! Does it hurt?”

“Well, it was just really numb at first, probably from the shock. Then it started to hurt a lot, but with the ice pack, it’s starting to feel better. Can you get me another one?”

And with that look, who  _ wouldn’t _ give this boy everything he desired?

“Of course,” Hangyul says, feeling his heart melt. “I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

He closes the door behind him, turning back to look at it with a fond expression, when he turns around and is stunned shitless by a lurking figure in the shadows. “What the fuck,” he coughs out. “Dongpyo, don’t stand there like that! I nearly had a heart attack!”

Dongpyo simply stands there, not bothering to turn on the light. “Why did you bring him there?”

“He was just waiting for me, and I brought up chicken, and I asked him if he wanted to go…” Hangyul rambles. He’s not quite sure why he’s nervous. “So we went. And then he-  _ I _ tripped him.”

“At least you bothered to get  _ one _ thing right,” Dongpyo says. His voice is so casual. Why is it so casual? “That it was your fault.”

For a second, Hangyul takes in Dongpyo’s tiny form and is tempted to laugh. Who does this pipsqueak think he is, accusing his hyung like that? Then he remembers Hyeongjun’s fallen form back in the restaurant, and swallows back his protests.

“You never think, do you?” Dongpyo continues, words soft as velvet. They land like knives into Hangyul’s heart. “The media eats it up. Eats  _ us _ up. And then they chew us up and spit us out, and there’s no more of  _ us _ left. And now we’re stuck in this mess, because  _ you _ made this mistake. So where are we supposed to go from here?”

Somehow, Hangyul doesn’t think he’s talking about Hyeongjun anymore.

He meets the other’s eyes, ashamed but defiant. “If I recall, I’m not the only one who made a mistake.”

One beat. Two beats. Then Dongpyo rips his glare away, shoulders tensing up. “Just… don’t do that again.”

The dark bags underneath his youthful eyes are more prominent than Hangyul expected, and not for the first time, he remembers the toll it must take on not just him, but the younger members as well.

“I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> comment to help kick off 2020
> 
> twit: delusabaism. i'm funny only when i want to be, and i always want to be due to my constant need for affirmation


End file.
